Morphine

They were having some kind of school dance a couple weeks after I held her hand. I asked her to go and she laughed.

“A school function? You’re kidding right? Don’t you have some blonde to go with?”

“Uh, yeah… Some blonde.”

Something happened a few days after that. Something was said. Something was heard.
She’d been coming to tell me she’d changed her mind, or so I like to think… But the price of being king, of being loved by your peers, is that you say things you don’t mean.

I called her a whore and a thousand other words that could never describe her.

Realizing my mistake, I tried to make it up to her, but she disappeared in a mass of black. The night of the dance, I had my mom drive me to her house to apologize, but she was having a party. She’s had one every year since: The Anti-Dances, Anti-Homecomings, Anti-Proms, and Anti-Winter Formals. As I am the king of the Populars, She is the queen of the self-proclaimed outcasts.

I am her King and she is my Anti-Queen.
I am invited and she never is, and vice verse.

But this year, I’ll try again. This year, I will take her to a school function. Or at least get invite to one of hers. I have to… I need her.

“Hey,” I say, very confident one day, strolling up to her (where she sits next to that bastard Atwood). She turns from her conversation, annoyed.
“Can I help you?”
“Yeah, I wondered if you were having another Anti-Ball, Black Tie Affair this year.”
“And if I am?”
“I’d like to know how one merits an invitation.”
“Trust me, you’re not our type.”
“Oh, well, um…” I started to leave. “Thanks anyway.”
“Hey!” She yells, almost grinning. “Wear black and don’t bring that bitch Sarah McAllister.”
“Thanks.” I say, shocked she’s agreeing.
“Dude, I was serious about the bitch thing.”